Silent Storms
by SydnieWren
Summary: Ichigo gets left behind in Hueco Mundo, and is raped by Gin. Things can't ever be the same. Warning: graphic noncon. Angst. UraharaxIchigo.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Rape, angst.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

I figured it's been too long since I wrote good old fashioned angst. I sort of went for something a little different here, so I'd like to know what you think about it. Namely, I purposefully didn't include any dialogue, so I'm interested in hearing about your thoughts on the effect that had on the piece. I also tried to get it good and tense, really kind of set the scene up well. So, enjoy! Hope you guys like it.

* * *

He hadn't gone in alone. At the time, Kira and Renji had been with him - there had been backup - but they were unprepared for the overwhelming force Hueco Mundo brought to bear against them, and they fled. They fled, leaving Ichigo, because he was deep inside Los Noches, lost in its maze of shifting corridors and tall white ceilings. They fled because they knew they could not rescue him alone.

That is why they fled.

Shortly thereafter, Kuchiki-sama was elected to reconnoiter, very briefly, and then return with the foundations of a strategy for the recovery of Ichigo. Had one inquired as to his opinion of the situation, he would have suggested, grimly, that he believed the likelihood of the boy's survival to be very, very low.

And so he thought, when he came upon Ichigo's still naked body in that silent, windless desert, that he had been correct. The boy was prone, laying on his front, his back lightly scattered with sand. There was a faint movement of breath in him, his ribs expanded and contracted ever so slightly, and Byakuya perceived it. For a moment he was impressed - and then - there was a blackening of the white sand around the boy's thighs, and it became clear, upon inspection, that it was dried blood.

Byakuya drew back with a jerk as he understood the source. It suddenly seemed very indecent to be looking down at him, now less an injured comrade and more a young boy, cruelly used. It occurred to him that it might be some sort of illusion - and he looked around, he waited - but nothing came of it.

So there he was, an aristocrat kneeling over a young, devastated body, white scarf in hand, to clothe him. Byakuya wrapped the cloth around him tenderly, crossed it over his hips as he lifted him into his arms. The blood would never come out of the scarf, he knew, and in that sense it would stain the house of Kuchiki forever.

* * *

When Byakuya re-entered Sereitei, he did not want anyone to see the boy. He bore him close to his chest and considered a detour to his mansion to find dignified clothing for him, but he feared time was short, and instead carefully carried him to lady Unohana, taking twisting back routes for speed and stealth.

It was sunset, and the sky was a strange and grim orange, dark and tinged with heavy copper at the edges, as though it had been burned. There was an opaqueness to it, the way it penetrated the low clouds, and it became apparent that there was a storm in the distance, for the air was thick with hot moisture, and each breath felt faintly like drowning.

At the same moment, Hinamori was humming as she walked, basket over her arm full of fruit as she headed toward her home. Her small feet were soft on the pavement, and so Byakuya did not hear her until he passed by an alleyway; at the same moment, she glanced to her side as well, and through the narrow passage, saw him. It was only a moment's perception, but there was such scorn in his eyes - and the terrible sight of Ichigo, cradled in his arms, and worse - that she flattened herself to the wall, breathing again only when he had flickered out of sight.

Her basket had tumbled out of her hands, and her peaches rolled out onto the ground. The uneven brick she had been pressed up against caught her ribbon as she pulled away from the wall at a sprint, so her hair flowed out behind her as she ran.

* * *

Byakuya reached the fourth division headquarters, and found himself near the small, tidy home that Unohana kept. He had been there, had tea with her before, she was a fine woman, the kind that, withholding his devotion to Hisana and the many years between them, would have once been proud to call his wife.

With his arms full, he could not knock. Shameful as it was, he simply nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful to lift Ichigo's head to his breast. He stood in her entry way for a moment, waiting, and as he supposed, she sensed his presence through some daily miracle of womanly intuition, and appeared.

He did not know what to say. Nobles did not use the word 'rape'. It was outside the scope of decency. It was foreign to their world and coldly rejected from it. 'Violated' was too low in dignity; aristocrats were inviolate. Momentarily he settled - uneasily - on the term that had firstly occurred to him: cruelly used. But it failed on his lips as he raised his head to meet Unohana's eyes, and found that she had already understood. Her gaze lingered on the bloodied scarf and she glanced away, accepting the circumstance with unearthly serenity.

She guided Byakuya into a small chamber; whether or not it was her bedroom he could not discern. She stood by a bed, a little raised, very soft, and waited for the boy to be laid out before her. As soon as Byakuya carefully settled Ichigo into the sheets, Unohana was kneeling at his side - and the noble sensed it was time to leave the healer to her work.

He closed the door softly behind himself and heard no sound from the room. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to step over her threshold. It was as though he had inherited Ichigo's misery on their journey. He couldn't leave him; he had to know if his efforts had been in vain. And if Unohana needed some aid, he rationalized, he would be present.

Her foyer was neat and clean, the picture of good Japanese housekeeping, with a little table supporting a simple flower arrangement, and a petit chair nearby, for those who needed to wait. Byakuya simply leaned against the paneled wall, resting his shoulders. He swallowed a breath of the balmy air, and tasted it as though he had taken a mouthful of the faded tea and spices, the polish that permeated old houses, old books and fresh perfume.

Sweat was unknown to aristocrats save for on noble occasions such as gentlemanly sparring sessions, so the heavy moist cloth that adhered to his skin was a disturbance Byakuya had not been particularly prepared for. Condensation had formed on the orchids in the vase. There was a heaviness to the air like the threshold of a hot spring, but thicker, more oppressive.

There was thunder in the distance.

* * *

Kira only remembered that she had said he was naked - that Ichigo was naked - and his worst fears were immediately confirmed. It was a suspicion so grim and terrible that it had haunted him from the moment they left Ichigo there, swearing to one another that they would go back, that they would rescue him within the hour.

It had been a day -

That was hardly enough to comfort himself. He had started running the moment she said it, though she didn't know what she said. The implications - immediately, Kira's heart had frozen and his breath had left him with an aching emptiness in his chest. And then, he was gone, sprinting, his long shadow spreading over the pavement behind him, all the way to the horizon.

And she had to tell Urahara. He made her promise.

* * *

Byakuya had left the wide sliding doors of Unohana's house open to invite some phantom breeze. The air was still; there was no wind in the grass or trees. The sky had darkened, but the sultry presence of the impending storm remained, suspended there, nervously anticipated.

Byakuya gave a start when Kira appeared, panting in the wide doorway. There was a sheen of sweat over his pale skin, his gaunt, haunted face. The noble turned to face him for a brief moment as a tense silence passed between them, and then settled again, against the wall.

Kira hung back for a couple of heartbeats before stepping timidly over Unohana's threshold, and into the small foyer. The chair tempted him, but he couldn't bring himself to touch what looked so delicate, so simple, so clean. So, he sat down on the other side of the little table and drew his knees up to his chest, settling an elbow on each, crossing his forearms over one another. He looked up at Byakuya for a short moment, and though their eyes did not meet, he knew by the grave look - and the disturbance in his person - that all of his suspicions were correct.

Kira rested his forehead on his arms.

_If I was a better person I would be more worried than this. Aizen wouldn't do it. Tousen wouldn't do it. _

There was no doubt in his mind that Gin had been the one to take the boy.

_So all the scars are on the inside. _

It wasn't as though he hadn't been on the receiving end of Gin's special brand of brutality. He preferred to blur the boundaries of consent. Those long fingers, that spearlike tongue, his lips, dry and soft, and the absolute stunning leanness of his body, perhaps one would suppose him bony and thus delicate, but the man was cold and hard and solid as stone. For a time, Kira protested, though Gin was always gentle to a sinister degree. There wasn't blood, but there were always mutual orgasms, which Kira firstly believed to be twice as shameful.

_I liked it._

He was still even as the crickets outside began to sing, their chorus growing shrill and deafening.

_I wish it had been me they'd left behind. _

There was a searing pain behind his eyes, and he realized with a sinking self-loathing that he was angry at the boy, that he was jealous, that Gin's cold malice must have infected him.

_And I wish they would never go back for me._

* * *

Urahara still knew the place as well as he ever had. Somehow he got there, though his lungs had seized and his knees had gone weak the moment he had heard the news.

_No, no, no. No._

But he knew it was true, and he wondered if he had somehow invited it by loving the boy, putting the scent of sex on his skin and the particular grace of movement that only came from learning the arts of love. On a whim, he thought, they must have noticed, and, finding it a little humorous, had decided on that torture. And they knew, must have known, who they were torturing: whoever left him, whoever found him, whoever loved him.

He arrived to the wide open doors and the thick, wet air, to the screeching of crickets and the new wind in the grass and reeds, to the vague sound of thunder approaching. Hand resting weakly on the doorframe, he looked firstly at Byakuya, secondly at Kira, and turned his back to them, sitting on the porch. No one spoke. It was too anxious, the tension was too high, thicker than the heat, than the moisture in the air, it was oppressive, kept their mouths shut for the force of it.

He was light-headed, dizzy, in a terrible dream. In the damp oppressive heat and the small room which seemed to be closing in on them, a headache slowly settled in him, and despite it, he thought.

_Let's be serious. _

But he couldn't finish the thought. Just didn't work. Couldn't rationalize his way out of this one. Worst thing he'd ever encountered, worse than anything he had ever thought of.

_At least Shinji had his shit together._

And yet his mind drifted repeatedly, endlessly, inexorably to the thing that had caused the blossoming of such unmitigated anguish in him, that made his chest ache so badly and his heart beat so painfully, that made him sick; he knew he would vomit in the grass at any moment.

The crickets stilled as the first drops of rain fell.

_This won't ever go away._

* * *

When Ichigo opened his eyes, Unohana observed, but chose not to acknowledge it. She hadn't much experience with this, with the delicacy of this state; once Ishida had refused to explain the damage to his body, and perhaps that was as close as she had been. He blinked once, twice, and immediately turned away from her, loosening bandages and perhaps opening remaining wounds.

At once he relived it, without a moment's calm.

Aizen hadn't said a word; he had nodded to Gin with this peculiar quirk to his brow - they must have discussed it before. And he was already hurt, they had toyed with him enough to incapacitate him though he was still conscious.

And then Gin had enveloped him in white cloth, pressing him against the cold pale stone. He had lurched back, tried to fight as best he could, but his blood was smearing onto the floor and he slipped in it; Gin slid his arm under the boy's hips and held him tight. Ichigo could feel soft, dry lips on his neck, mouthing, - kisses. he felt the slightest brush, the barest touch of the tip of Gin's spearlike tongue against the nape of his neck, and he shivered.

Gin's touch was horrifyingly tender. Urahara had always been so careful with him, but he hadn't treated him like glass, there had been grabbing and holding and hard kisses and typically a few minutes of wrestling before they lost their clothes. It was almost like playing; he was a teenage boy -

The thought of Urahara while Gin's hand wrapped around his sex with those spider-like fingers that seemed two joints too long, made him shudder. It wasn't right, what was happening to him. He felt childish thinking, 'no, I only want him to touch me there' - and his stomach seized, and he vomited on the icy stone floor, whatever had been left in his stomach, mostly bitter bile.

Gin stopped for a moment, as though to verify what he thought had happened had indeed happened, and then slid his arm up to Ichigo's chest, raising his body slightly, as to avoid a mess.

There was a stillness, during which Ichigo heard Gin sucking lightly on his own fingers, and he cried, perhaps there were tears, but certainly a sound of utter anguish, something like begging, which he hated himself for, but - he wouldn't ever admit it, he decided, he wouldn't ever tell anybody, if he made it out of there, what had happened.

Wouldn't tell them how scared he had been.

And then, Gin's fingers were inside of him. He eased them in slowly, breathing soothing words into Ichigo's ear - 'there, there, be still, it'll be better in a minute, I promise' - which finally broke the boy, and he cried. He could feel the other grin against him, that infuriating, sinister smile that was the mask of so much malice, so much hidden scorn and rage and hatred of the world.

Gin worked him open like a lover would, held him close and carefully stroked that little pleasure center inside of him, which only made him tense, squirm a little. And then, withdrawing his fingers, he gently pressed his length inside, until Ichigo could feel his lean body pressed up tight against him. He was long, very long, an appropriate extension of his generally elongated, sharp body.

It hurt.

As he began to thrust, very slowly, gingerly, Gin redoubled his efforts to restrain Ichigo, holding him tight against his chest, the boy's knees trapped between his own. With a sharp breath, Ichigo gave one last show of resistance, bucking back, twisting his body - and Gin remained still as stone. The boy screamed, and blood dripped onto the white floor, obscuring their reflection.

Panting, heaving, Ichigo's struggling subsided; he had no more strength, physical or moral. He felt Gin's hips moving, now at a quicker pace, and that same hand moving on his sex, barely hard, and worsening.

Somehow his body gave in, accommodated Gin, and he simply collapsed, sagged, let the man take him with his cruel tenderness. It became impossible to cry: his throat was too swollen, his chest too weak, his heart too broken. He thought simply about Urahara, about dying, about how terribly young he was - sickened by the thought of his age, that he was, now very obviously, just a fifteen-year-old boy.

Gin's orgasm was sharp; he finished in a few quick, hard thrusts, filled Ichigo with an uncomfortable, stinging warmth and stilled for a moment to breathe. When he had regained his bearings, he went back to stroking the boy, murmuring terrible things into his ear, undulating against him with his sex still inside.

Ichigo came with a raw, burnt-out sob.

As he recovered, Gin pulled out of him and wrapped his hands around his throat, holding tight until darkness overtook him.

* * *

Rain pounded against the windows of Unohana's home, flooded the grass, silenced the crickets, drenched all the world.

Urahara hardly seemed to notice; he only moved inside and slid the wide doors shut when he sensed Byakuya staring intently at him. Presently within the room, he had no idea what to do. He looked around, tidy little corners, the neat vase and the delicate antique chair.

He stood and waited; he thought of Ichigo, only of Ichigo.

And Byakuya, waiting as well, considered the cruelty of it, the arrangement of the new Sereitei, one potentially without the boy forever.

And Kira, waiting there too, was overcome with his uselessness, and with the petty hatred consuming him.

The room was still just as hot, the air just as dense, the silence, despite the thunder and the rain, just as tangible.

Unohana shortly entered, quietly shutting the door behind her.

She looked around at them, and said nothing.

* * *

That's all folks! Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright, you got me. I originally intended this to be a oneshot, but I'm a pushover for my reviewers - I'm really grateful for all the reads! So, here is a new chapter, out of the experimental format of the first chapter. So while there is dialogue, you'll notice a theme of silence in each vignette - or at least, I hope you will! **

**By the way - this isn't the final chapter. There will be one more, featuring only Ichigo and Urahara. So please keep reading!**

**Warnings: Angst.**

**Disclaimer: Do not own.**

* * *

An agreement was reached between Unohana and Urahara that it was best to allow Ichigo to remain in the care of the fourth division until all of his injuries were healed. The boy's tacit consent was assumed: he did not want his inquiring, well-meaning father to discover him in such a state, or to figure out the origin of his disrepair. Slowly the constant monitoring tapered off; visits from Unohana decreased from hourly to daily, and sometimes less as she became weary. Isane brought in meals, and within a week the boy hesitantly agreed to receive visitors.

No one came. Urahara thought that it was for the better, anyhow.

* * *

Following Hisana's death, Byakuya had neither dreamt nor prayed. When she had been alive he had enjoyed such vivid dreams, visions of cherry blossoms and peonies freshly streaked with clear spring rain, the soft lull of streams, pure glittering snow adorning his delicate winter garden. And he had prayed, often, inhaling incense in the shrine of his ancestors, leaving those holy places with renewed courage and smoky perfume drifting from his hair.

But after she had gone, leaving his bed cold and empty, his nights had been dreamless and dark, a starless sky, infinite and lonely. And he had not prayed, only paid respects, daily bringing flowers and gifts of sweets to Hisana's shrine while secretly leaving the graves of his ancestors sealed and silent as dust gathered among them.

Lately things had changed.

He emerged again in the morning, stepping into the pale dawn gingerly. It was not his preference to disturb the dew; he meant to leave nature stately and dignified, Kuchiki in its own right. In his hands he carried fragile lilies, fresh from the garden. Their milk stained his fingers and, at the entrance to Hisana's shrine, he paused.

Again he found, as he had for the time since he had discovered Ichigo, that he could not go in. For nightly he dreamed of the boy, weak and bloody, a narrow stalk cut down too soon. And, nightly, he awoke to the racing of his heart and quickness of his breath, for something in the image of Ichigo pale and prone conjured something terrible in him.

Daily he prayed. Once more he went to the shrine of his ancestors and wordlessly confessed his shame. Never had he visited the boy again, though he thought of it.

His blood still stained the white scarf.

Hisana could not know what he had become.

He lowered the lilies carefully onto the doorstep and left the place in silence.

* * *

Urahara thoughtlessly traced the rim of Unohana's earthenware teacup with the tip of his finger. Lately he had been consumed by his mind though he resisted it, sought out a numb mental emptiness merely to make it through the day. He had taken to staying at her home in a little guest room, sharing meals with the boy and sometimes looking in on him in the night, as much for his own comfort as anything else.

Unohana poured a little more tea into his cup, wrist arched elegantly. He looked up at her, then down again, gazing into the steam.

"Who's with him?" he asked at length.

"Kira-fukutaichou," she answered softly.

"Am I keeping you?"

A sharpness.

Unohana was momentarily speechless, hesitating on bitter words.

"No, not at all..."

But his question persisted in the strained pause between them.

"It has been difficult for me," she admitted finally.

"Difficult?"

"Sometimes I find it - one can weep, one must weep..."

Urahara nodded slowly, blankly, as though submerged in a trance.

"I keep thinking it's all a dream," he murmured.

"I always knew, I feel..."

"Knew?" For the first time in their discussion he met her weak eyes.

"That Ichimaru-taichou, and even - even Aizen-taichou - that there was something wrong, something strange." And she spoke hurriedly, stumbling a bit, her gaze flickering away to stare nervously at the window.

"Ah," Urahara muttered, "they are taichou and I am Kisuke."

Unohana moved to speak but he stopped her with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"You knew but - you didn't say anything?"

She shifted in her seat and turned her cup between her fingers.

"What was I to say? In these matters one cannot cite woman's intuition. And I haven't - I haven't ever been one to upset things, if I can avoid it."

Urahara captured her eyes again and refused to break his stare. Swiftly she looked away, with stinging sinuses, the familiar harbinger of tears.

"He mustn't know any of this," she whispered. For she knew in her anguish, just as Urahara knew, that she had betrayed the boy as much as anyone with her silence.

And there were things he meant to say: why not? Why shouldn't he know? Isn't it his right to know that all of this could never have happened? Shouldn't he know who betrayed him first?

But the words wouldn't come.

* * *

Kira tapped lightly on the door frame with folded knuckles. In the quiet of the hall he heard clearly shifting inside the room, and then a reluctant invitation inside. He slid the door open quietly and moved inside like a specter, closing it behind him with the same care. Ichigo had elected to keep the room dim, lighting it only with a slim candle sheltered in a white paper lantern settled on a low table at the furthest corner of the room. Kira stood by the doorway for a long moment, adjusting to the scant light.

"Good afternoon," he greeted softly, then advancing closer to the boy's bed. Ichigo sat on the edge, choosing as always to ignore his pain. He refused Kira's eyes.

"How are you feeling?" the blond tried again, having received no response to his greeting. A vague smile graced his pale face.

"Okay," Ichigo muttered, "better...yeah, better."

"Any pain?" Kira knelt at his bedside and removed a tidy medical bag from underneath it.

"No."

"Fatigue?"

"I guess, I guess I'm tired."

"Well," Kira assured him gently with a vague tint of optimism, "you'll have plenty of time to rest here."

"Is Kisuk - " - he broke mid-word - "is Urahara around?"

Kira glanced up.

"Yes - yes, he's about. Shall I bring him in?"

"No...afterward."

"Of course."

Ichigo was motionless for a time as Kira sorted through his things, and then, without suggestion, lay down on his stomach, as he had had during all of his check-ups. No longer did he wish to be asked to do it.

The blond took to his knees next to the low bed, and gingerly brought his fingertips to the boy's shoulder blade.

"Touching, now," he warned quietly.

"I know," Ichigo mumbled.

And Kira did not reply. He sank into himself in the silence, as he had since he first began treating the boy in Unohana's absence. Against his will he retreated deeply into his mind, hardly registering the feel of the boy's wounds and scars though he meant to investigate them and treat them with salve, then redressing them.

He thought only of the bruises as he traced over them meaninglessly. He fantasized about every mark, every wound, imagining their origin.

Imagining Gin's fingers, imagining his bruising grip, imagining his passion and his pleasure, his fury, his malice and his grace, imagining how beautiful he must have been at the moment of climax, and how terrible. He wanted each scar for himself, something more he could have of his captain, something to trace over at night, something to deeply feel.

Even while touching, a gulf of distance existed between them, a harsh and heavy emptiness that he feared Ichigo could sense.

But then again he realized that he did not mind. And in himself he sensed the sour jealousy, the petty hatred for the boy that he had felt at the moment he discovered what had happened to him. In the smothering darkness of the room he despised himself as well, for the pleasure he felt when touching those injuries, those bruises and scars.

Even so he felt for once alive.

* * *

Renji slowly faded. Less and less he appeared in public, and more and more the things inside of him disintegrated, until he was no longer Renji at all.

Byakuya knew that he never again would be, but he understood that he was - as they all were - powerless as well.

* * *

**Thanks for the read! Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, here we go: a final chapter! I'd like to thank you guys for sticking with this story, and as always for your reviews. I hope you enjoy!**

**Warnings: angst.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

After some time Kira finished his work and quietly rose to his feet, then gathering his instruments back into their neat bag and sliding it under the bed.

"Shall I send Urahara-san in now?"

Ichigo did not stir, though he muttered a pillow-muffled "Yeah."

Kira nodded and, with an unseen and half-hearted bow, left the boy to his thoughts, still lying face-down in bed.

Outside, the vice captain found Urahara wandering aimlessly among Unohana's flowers, touching the petals but not feeling them, staring blankly at nothing at all. He looked exhausted; he sported five-o-clock shadow long grown out from his typical stubble, and bore shadows beneath his eyes. Kira stood in the doorway to the garden, hand on the doorframe, embarrassed to interrupt the man.

"Urahara-san," he called gently. Immediately the other man came out of his trance, head snapping up and eyes flashing.

"Yeah, Kira?" he moved toward the door, hands tucked into his sleeves. Even in those days he tried to be pleasant, if only for Ichigo's sake.

"He's ready to see you now," the blond explained gently.

"Aah, then I'd better go in, eh?"

Kira nodded wordlessly with a vague and empty smile. Urahara brushed past him with a quick stride and lack of regard that belied his friendliness. His sandals fell quiet as he left the porch, slipping them off to retreat into Unohana's tidy home. Kira did not turn to watch him go.

"Knock knock," Urahara called.

"Come in," came the reply, this time slightly more enthusiastic.

"Ohayou, Ichigo," the blond greeted, his voice dropping a pitch automatically in the dark quiet of the room. Ichigo sat up in bed, watching him.

"Morning," he answered groggily.

"How are you feeling today?" He crouched down to sit on the floor, leaning back on his palms.

"Okay. I think I'm better."

Urahara perked up.

"Do you think you'd like to come back? Of course, you don't -

"What about my dad though?" Ichigo asked, glancing down at his lap.

"Aah, I suppose we could find some space for you at the shop."

There was a moment of quiet.

"You can stay as long as you like, Ichigo," the blond reminded him gently, levity low in his voice, "always."

The boy glanced about the room and then began to nod slowly.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I think...I wanna go back."

Returning Ichigo to the shop was not as difficult as Urahara had originally assumed. Byakuya offered them crossing through his estate, which was especially expansive and, moreover, private. Though Ichigo could walk with minimal effort, he did not want to be seen. Together they crossed the neatly manicured grass, stepping over carefully carved streams and skirting the borders of fine rock gardens.

No one was there to send them off.

Urahara had made it clear to Yoriuchi - via Soi Fon - that he did not want anyone hanging around the shop when they returned, at least for a couple of weeks. He figured that Ichigo did not need anyone hanging over him or prodding for details, nor stewing over the indignity and plotting revenge.

Naturally, Yoruichi was heartbroken and furious. Urahara did not know where she had disappeared to upon hearing the news, and he did not investigate. It was clear, when they arrived back at the shop, that Tessai had done something with the kids, as well. The doors were locked, lights off, silent throughout.

"Aah, it's good to be home," Urahara sighed, locking the doors again behind them. Ichigo said nothing, simply standing idly with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking around at the shelves and bins and countertops as though he had never seen them before.

"Maybe you're hungry?"

Ichigo shrugged noncommittally.

"A little."

"A little, ah, well. I'm sure I have a _little _something around here. Ah, let's see..." Urahara rooted through his shelves, unsettlingly bare in the absence of Tessai's grocery shopping. Finally he came upon a few bags for tea, and a dried miso soup mix. "Not as fresh as I'd like, but - "

Urahara turned to regard the boy, but found him missing, only empty stillness in his absence. Somehow, on his impressively nimble sock feet, he had slipped off. The blond figured he deserved a moment of solitude, and turned back to his work, boiling a kettle of water and preparing some for the soup. He heard water begin to rush through the pipes - as he often did when Ichigo arrived at the shop after a long absence - and felt unusually comforted by it. Leaning on the stove, he listened to the sound of the passing water, and watched steam rise. Moments later, he had two cups of tea and two bowls of soup - both of suspect quality - settled on a tray and prepared for consumption.

By the time he arrived at the top of the stairs, tray precariously balanced, Ichigo's shower had ceased. He took special care to respect the boy's privacy, turning his back to the open door of the bathroom to settle the cups and bowls on his nightstand. He rose only when Ichigo emerged, one towel around his waist and another draped over his shoulders. Urahara grinned.

"Mediocre food, just for you, my prince."

Ichigo's eyebrows rose slightly and he shrugged.

"Better than nothing."

"That remains to be seen."

The blond moved aside and invited the boy to sit on the edge of his bed, and he pulled up a chair on the opposite side of his night stand.

"They're the same," Urahara remarked lightly, and Ichigo selected a cup and bowl.

For a time they ate and drank in silence. It seemed that Ichigo had discovered his hunger and thirst only when stimulating them; he had sucked down the bitter stale tea and salty soup, desiccated tofu and all, before Urahara had even finished half. After a few more quiet moments, the blond heaved a satisfied sigh.

"A little better than expected," he commented, though his tone was wry.

"Better than nothing," Ichigo sighed yet again, "thanks for this."

Urahara thought that might have been the longest string of words he had heard from the boy since the incident, and his heart leapt for it.

"I suspect you may be right," he agreed quickly, "and you are most welcome!"

He began to gather the dishes back onto the tray, preparing to return them to the kitchen.

"We will have to invite Ishida-kun to cook for us sometime," he suggested lightly, finally rediscovering some of his levity. Ichigo was still.

"Does he know?"

Urahara paused at the door, feeling those first blossoms of mirth wither.

"I don't - I'm not sure. I don't think so. Please try not to think about that." He hesitated. "No one will think the less of you for any of this, Ichigo."

"Even you?"

But the words were hoarsely whispered, mere crests of breath, and Urahara was humming on his trip down the stairs by the time it was finished. With minimal noise he left the tea cups and bowls in the sink, returning the tray to its shelf. Satisfied with his housekeeping, he put the lights out behind him, and returned to his room, leaving the stairwell dark as well.

Urahara closed his door gingerly behind him, crossed the room to his bathroom and shut the lights off, peeled his socks off and removed his hat all before realizing that Ichigo was naked in their bed. A cold stun washed over him.

Of course they had always slept that way, nude, both of them. Urahara had teased him over it and received a few late night smacks over his playful pestering. But it occurred to him then that he had, in some subconscious region of his mind, supposed that he would not be seeing him nude, sleeping near him or so much as touching him any time soon. And he respected that, all of it.

He slid quietly out of his clothes and snuffed out the lamp. Standing at his bedside, he paused nervously.

"Do you mind if I sleep here?" he murmured gently.

"It's your bed," Ichigo mumbled.

"Aah, but you're my guest."

"I wish," Ichigo said softly, with remarkable clarity, "I wish people would stop asking me this stuff."

And Urahara hadn't even thought of it, in his haze of sorrow and apprehension, hadn't entertained the notion that the constant probing and suggestion of fragility had pained him, reminded him of the loss of a fundamental element of himself.

"I'm sorry, Ichigo," Urahara answered after a stretch of silence.

He slid into bed beside the boy then, again vaguely enraptured by the presence of his warmth, and lay down on his back. Ichigo turned away from him, laying on his side, facing the blank wall adjacent to the bed. And then there was a second of baited breath during which the blond contemplated draping his arm over the boy as he always had.

After careful consideration he supposed he should.

Slowly, as to provide the boy some measure of warning, he turned onto his side. When Ichigo did not shift or protest, he laid his arm over his narrow waist, bringing the boy's sharp shoulder blades to press gently against his chest. And he wanted to ask - is this alright, should I go on, shall I stop? But he was silent.

Ichigo did not flinch, though his body remained stiff and unyielding.

"Relax," Urahara murmured, lips grazing the nape of the boy's neck, "you must be exhausted. You haven't slept well in a while, hm?"

"No," he answered mutedly.

"Dreams?"

"Yeah."

Urahara could hear the boy's voice weaken as he sank closer to sleep. And he thought then of telling him about his own nightmares, the ones that had persisted long after he had been banished from Sereitei. He wanted to tell him how helpless he had felt, how powerless, how furious and how incapable he had felt at that time of comprehending all of the meaningless cruelty in the world, how deeply he understood his feelings.

But for Ichigo's sake, he let him rest. He kissed the back of his neck and pulled him near as he always had, perhaps a little tighter, perhaps a little closer. After a short while, his body loosened and his breathing deepened, soothed by Urahara's familiar touch. And then he said the only thing he felt right about, something he believed.

"It'll be alright."

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